


Infinite Combinations

by teya



Series: Becoming Light [1]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 04:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4046386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teya/pseuds/teya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stardate 54937.58: While Chakotay is off the ship on an away mission, Seven finds herself a subject of Voyager's rumor mill. C/7, but I have a bit of good-natured fun with other pairings. Set between "Renaissance Man" and "Endgame."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infinite Combinations

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: It's Paramount's galaxy. The story is mine.
> 
> "Stardust," music and original lyrics by Hoagy Carmichael, 1927.

According to the description in the replicator file, the dress was of midnight-blue bias-cut velvet with princess seams. It had long, narrow sleeves, a scoop neck, and was designed to fit close to the body, flaring into rich folds just below the curve of her hips. The neck and hem, which fell to mid-calf, were edged in the same color blue satin. Seven examined her reflection in the polished metal side of a cargo container and smoothed the fabric over her abdomen. She struck a pose identical to the image in the file—one foot forward, her hands on her hips. She was not certain that she liked what she saw. Although the garment itself was impressive, the reflected image was disconcerting. Those were her features peering quizzically back at her, yet this woman was unfamiliar.

She had never before worn anything like this—constructed of so much fabric she could feel its weight—and she was uncertain as to how she should move in it. She stepped forward a few paces and turned around. The skirt flared out and the fabric brushed over her thighs, cool and silky—a curious, although pleasant, sensation. She turned again and again, faster, watching her reflection as she spun as if she were watching someone else—the behavior was so unlike her. Yet the dress itself seemed to demand such movement. She stepped out of the spin, the fabric tangled around and between her legs, and she stumbled forward a few steps before regaining her balance. She stood in front of the cargo container and frowned. She required practice.

"Nice dress."

Seven startled at the intrusion and felt her face burn red. She'd been so preoccupied, she hadn't noticed anyone enter the cargo bay. She drew herself to full height. "Naomi Wildman," she snapped, "it is rude to enter someone's quarters without announcing your presence first."

The adolescent looked at her, smirking, seemingly oblivious to Seven's irritation. She'd caught her. She knew something about Seven that no one else did.

"These _are_ my quarters," Seven pointed out, not unreasonably.

"You're right," Naomi conceded. "I'm sorry." Her smile widened to a grin. "It _is_ a nice dress. It looks good on you."

"It would look better if I knew how to wear it," Seven said. "I had not considered that wardrobe could be such a challenge." She took a few steps forward and the fabric once again tangled between her legs. She sighed.

Naomi snorted back a laugh and helped Seven rearrange the skirt. "You have to sashay," she explained.

"Sashay," Seven said.

"Like this," Naomi said, and demonstrated, taking long, leisurely steps and swinging her hips in an exaggerated fashion, then pirouetting on the ball of one foot and returning. She looked at Seven encouragingly. "Now, you try."

Seven looked at the girl skeptically. "Where did you learn this movement?" she asked.

Naomi shrugged. "On the holodeck. Some of the costumes in _Captain Proton_ are pretty hard to get around in." She winked and flashed Seven a knowing grin. "Lieutenant Paris doesn't design for utility, you know."

Seven struggled to keep her face impassive. Ktarians mature quickly, but still she found it increasingly difficult to reconcile the child she had known for three years and the young woman standing in front of her. There was something to be said for the longer human maturation process: inefficient as it might appear at first glance, it offered the adults in the child's life time to adapt. She thought it unfortunate that Naomi had inherited that aspect of her father's physiology, rather than Ensign Wildman's more leisurely human pace. "Does your mother know you're indulging in Mister Paris's holonovels?"

Naomi shrugged and tossed her hair, asserting her independence. "She doesn't monitor my every move," she said airily. She looked at Seven and rolled her eyes. "She has age-appropriate blocks in place."

"A wise precaution," Seven said.

"You're changing the subject." Naomi pointed to a spot across the room. "Sashay," she ordered, and stepped out, leading the way.

Seven took a deep breath and followed, awkwardly mimicking her movements. She felt worse than ridiculous, but it was working—the dress was moving with her, the fabric flowing around her legs. She smiled at Naomi shyly. While she would have figured it out on her own eventually, there was no telling how long that might have taken, and she was on a deadline: she needed to be reasonably proficient for her date with Commander Chakotay, which was in only four days' time.

"Not bad," Naomi said, observing her. "Now just relax and let it come naturally."

Seven wasn't certain that this would ever come "naturally," however she knew that it was important that she try. "Thank you," she said. "I am grateful for the assistance. I will practice later when I am not being observed."

"You might want to seal the door first," Naomi suggested.

"Another wise precaution," Seven agreed, and moved behind an arrangement of cargo containers to change.

"So who's the lucky guy?" Naomi asked.

Seven jerked and her elbow bumped a container. It rattled, but didn't fall. "The guy?" she repeated. Her throat was tight and her voice higher pitched than its normal state.

"Well, that's a date dress, if I ever saw one."

How did she know these things, Seven wondered, what is a "date dress," how to "sashay"? Was there a manual in the database? _How to Be a Human Female_. She frowned and stepped out of the garment, hung it on a hanger, and ran her fingers down the frivolously luxuriant fabric. She smiled. It was gratifying to know that she had gotten at least one thing right.

"The dress is for the holodeck," she explained, as she stepped into her biosuit. "A nightclub simulation. You know that I have an interest in music. I have been studying jazz." This was all true and Seven hoped that it was enough. She found deception unnatural, but she and the Commander had shared only one date. It seemed too early to be announcing her intentions, especially considering that she was not entirely certain of his.

Naomi didn't respond. Seven adjusted the sleeves of the biosuit and stepped from behind the makeshift closet. Naomi was standing next to Seven's alcove, her weight on one leg, arms folded across her chest, and her brows arched expectantly. Further explanation was clearly required.

"I will be attending a performance," Seven said, "by Rosemary Clooney, a twentieth-century Terran singer. Ensign Kim believes that I will enjoy her work—he says that we have a similar vocal range… and that I can learn from her style."

Naomi's brows remained high. "Alone?" She grinned. "Seems a shame to waste a dress like that on holocharacters."

Seven started to respond, but decided that silence was the best course of action. She moved to the console and tapped the screen, bringing up a file, then picked up a PADD and double-checked its data against that from the main computer. "It is a period-appropriate costume," she said at last. "Nothing more."

But Naomi was persistent. "I bet the Doctor would enjoy that performance," she said.

Seven froze. "The Doctor?" Her face burned and her voice had returned to an uncomfortably strained pitch. She attempted to compose herself, then turned and faced Naomi directly. "Explain," she said.

"Well, it's all over the ship," Naomi said, a little defensively. She saw Seven's quizzical expression. "When he thought he was going to decompile? How he confessed he was in love with you?"

Seven closed her eyes and sighed.

"It's all over the ship," Naomi repeated. She looked at Seven incredulously. "You didn't know?"

"I do not pay attention to gossip," Seven said. "While it is efficiently disseminated, it is too often based on idle speculation and therefore inaccurate."

"But this _is_ accurate," Naomi pointed out.

Seven frowned. "Yes, it is. The Doctor confessed his devotion."

Naomi smiled dreamily. "It's so romantic," she said. "He keeps his feelings to himself all these years…"

"But," Seven continued, interrupting her, "I'm not interested in the Doctor as a romantic partner."

Naomi's face fell. She considered this for a moment, then shook her head. "What a sad twist of fate," she said dramatically. "Instead of love, humiliation."

Seven felt badly for the Doctor. Although she didn't share his feelings, he was her friend and she didn't like thinking of him as an object of derision for the crew. "Who spread this information to the ship?" she demanded.

Naomi looked surprised at Seven's intensity. "He did," she said. "He tells everyone who goes into sickbay how he made such a fool of himself in front of you."

"So he compounds the error by making a fool of himself in front of everyone else." Seven's sympathy evaporated in a nanosecond. "And by extension, he makes a fool of me."

Naomi waved away Seven's discomfort. "Don't take it so seriously," she said. "It'll blow over in a couple of days and they'll be onto something else." She grinned slyly. "I hear Ensign Kim had a date on the holodeck with _both_ of the Delaney sisters. Kinky, huh?"

Seven gaped at the girl. She wasn't certain which astonished her more: the thought of Harry Kim in a romantic liaison with twins or the fact that she was hearing about it from a child. "Do you think it appropriate to speculate on the private lives of the crew in this way?" she asked.

Naomi laughed. "Seven, that's all anyone talks about on this ship." She patted Seven on the arm. "Don't worry about it. You're the topic this week, next week Harry, after that maybe the Captain and Commander Chakotay—it's been awhile since there was anything on them."

Seven froze again and struggled to keep her face impassive, an ultimately futile endeavor. "The Captain and…," she stammered. Had others known about this? Why hadn't she?

Naomi aped Seven's astonishment and laughed. "You didn't know about _that?_ " She shook her head again. "Wow! You're even more out of touch than Tuvok."

"Apparently so," Seven murmured, turning the revelation and its infinite possible permutations over in her mind. Perhaps it was merely idle speculation based upon coincidence and conjecture. On the other hand, perhaps the rumor was accurate and the time she spent with the Commander a simple offer of friendship. Perhaps she had misinterpreted his intentions. How could she know what was true? The obvious answer was to ask him, but that was impossible at the moment, given that he was off the ship on an away mission.

Naomi grinned. "Then you're lucky to have me as your friend," she said. She took the PADD from Seven's hand and set it on the console. "But we're late for lunch and I'm hungry. I'll fill you in on all the juicy details in the mess hall."

Part of Seven's mind told her that this information was irrelevant. She had seen with her own eyes his reaction to her company, she had sensed his increased heart rate in response to her smile. But she had to concede that she was not an unbiased judge. Were her observations tainted by her own desire? She pursed her lips. "Very well," she said and closed the file. More pressing research required her attention. She looked at Naomi and nodded. "You can provide me with your data over lunch."

∞

Seven frowned as she studied the star chart on the screen in Astrometrics, just as she had every day in the first months after Unimatrix Zero was destroyed. The region of space displayed—approximately forty-seven thousand light years from their present position—was sparsely populated, but still contained millions of star systems. She had worked day and night, and had used every resource at her command to devise a way to find one individual among trillions. But the area she was searching was too large and the distance between them too vast.

 _I will find you,_ Axum had said, but even as he spoke she knew he wouldn't. Still the power of naïve hope surprised her, how it fueled her own efforts, driving her to review the data again and again as if the mere repetition would reveal something new, something she'd missed. And late at night while the rest of alpha shift slept, she found herself drawn to the mess hall, where she would stand at the window, watch the stars, and concentrate deeply, as if somehow in this manner she could reach him with her mind.

She'd missed nothing and she couldn't contact him, so of course he never answered. And as the months passed, the silence grew less painful and the futility of the project more obvious. She had no way of knowing if he was even still alive. Yet, as she said goodbye, her loneliness did not abate. This was unexpected. Her life had not changed in any substantial way, except that now she knew something—albeit incompletely remembered—was missing.

She looked at the screen again and sighed. She wasn't certain which was more difficult—that futile search or filling this void. She required companionship—of that much she was certain—but human social rituals were complex and confusing, and courtship was proving the most confounding of all. She didn't remember meeting Axum, had no recollection of their courting, so any experience she might have had was irrelevant, and her research had revealed nothing more useful than the Doctor's social lessons: exhibit interest in the other individual, develop compatible activities, relax and "be yourself." This last was the most problematic. In social situations, being herself was more often than not a recipe for disaster.

She frowned at the screen again and closed the file, only then aware of Icheb standing a few paces to her right, a bemused expression on his face, waiting for her attention. Seven bristled, caught off-guard for the second time in as many hours. "Do you require my assistance?" she snapped.

He raised his eyebrows and smirked, with the breezy adolescent superiority that Seven had come to the conclusion was universal across sentient species. He handed her a PADD. "I've completed the recalibration of the aft sensor array," he said, "and increased the accuracy by an additional two percent."

Seven reviewed the data, then looked at the boy. "I am sorry. I shouldn't have addressed you in that fashion. I was preoccupied." She set the PADD on the console. "This is excellent work," she said. "The Captain will be pleased."

He nodded acknowledgement of the compliment, started to turn away, then reconsidered and faced her directly. "Do you require my assistance?" he asked.

Seven looked up at the unexpected offer. "With what?"

"With whatever is preoccupying you."

She started to retort that it was none of his business, but immediately thought better of it. Her irritation would only increase his curiosity—which would lead him to research further. She shifted her weight from foot to foot and focused her gaze on a spot on the platform below the viewscreen. She didn't speak.

"The region of space you were studying is well off Voyager's route," he offered helpfully. "What interest do you find in it?"

She took a deep breath. "I once knew someone there," she said at last, then turned and looked at him directly. Honesty was the best approach. "I was engaging in a sentimental moment—a human custom. It was an effort to distract myself." Her lips curled in a wry smile. "Apparently it was an effective exercise. I was distracted enough to be unaware of your presence."

Her humor missed its target. Icheb narrowed his eyes and studied hers. "So this region of space is not what is preoccupying you."

Seven sighed to herself and returned her attention to the platform. Her tactics were flawed—and she knew that he would not let this go. "No," she conceded. "My preoccupations are closer to home."

Icheb raised an eyebrow and Seven considered the situation. While Naomi had, as promised, regaled her with numerous accounts of romantic encounters between staggering numbers of the crew, her stories were so embellished as to make the individuals unrecognizable, and some were obvious fabrications. She had never known either the Captain or Commander Chakotay to drink to excess, so inebriated public proclamations of love in the middle of a social gathering were highly unlikely, and she knew for a fact that neither had ever serenaded the other during a crew talent show. If she were to be honest—and Seven was almost always _completely_ honest—just the thought of the Captain singing was enough to overload her aural implants. Given her tendency to adolescent flights of fancy, Naomi was not a reliable source.

Icheb, on the other hand, showed promise. He was a likeable young man, friendly with the crew, acutely observant, and more attuned to the nuances of Voyager's complex social interactions than Seven. Yet, unlike Naomi, he had a scientist's dispassionate eye. "Very well," she said, turning to look at him again. "Perhaps you can assist me." She took a deep breath; her chest was tight. "You're aware of the gossip on the ship, are you not?"

He was momentarily surprised, then smiled and nodded understanding. "You're referring to crew speculation regarding your relationship with the Doctor."

It wasn't the only thing to which Seven was referring, but it was the only thing to which she would admit. She blushed deeply. "We do not have a relationship," she said.

"Not now," Icheb said.

"Not ever," Seven said with a sigh. Would she have to explain this to every individual on the ship? "I am not interested in the Doctor as a romantic partner."

Icheb shrugged. "That doesn't matter."

Seven's nostrils flared with a quick intake of air. "Of course it matters. An individual cannot be forced…"

"A lack of mutual interest will not stop crew speculation," he said, interrupting her. "As a matter of fact, for the purposes of the story, it's best that the individuals do _not_ get involved."

Seven frowned. "Explain."

He thought for a moment. "I believe it is because the couple is perceived to live 'happily ever after' and happiness is boring." He noted Seven's persistent frown. "Again, from the perspective of the story's audience, not that of the couple involved," he said. "There is no conflict in happiness, and without conflict, there is no drama. And drama is the heart of a story. Romantic stories end with the commitment."

Seven shook her head. "But what occurs on this ship is mere gossip, not a story. Literature is an art form. Gossip is base speculation."

"Gossip is simply a form of serial storytelling," Icheb said earnestly. "It's almost universal across sentient species. Some cultures elevate it to a commodity—the Ferengi and early twenty-first century humans, for example. And some to an art form."

"Would that be Voyager's crew?" Seven asked archly.

Icheb chuckled. "This crew is inventive. They've provided a massive database for my research."

Seven cringed, remembering her own disastrous early attempts at understanding crew behavior via direct observation. "It is inappropriate to use the crew as research subjects," she scolded, echoing what Captain Janeway had said to her. "Voyager is not a nature preserve."

Icheb's cheeks reddened slightly. "I'm not studying the crew," he said. "Just their stories."

"Their stories?"

He nodded. "I'm studying xenomythology with Commander Chakotay," he explained. "For my research project, I am analyzing the patterns of the stories told on Voyager. They are this community's mythology."

Her charge's ingenuity impressed her—she would never have considered gossip a scientific discipline. "What have you found?" she asked, genuinely interested.

He thought for a moment. "As you are aware, the majority of the stories involve romance, and a broad cross-section of the crew is involved in their dissemination. They are extraordinarily popular," he said. "The stories themselves fall into traditional patterns. 'Opposites attract'—Lieutenants Paris and Torres, for example. 'Former enemies' would be any couple composed of a Starfleet officer and former Maquis."

Or herself and Commander Chakotay, Seven thought wryly. He had attempted to flush her out of an airlock shortly after their first meeting. Surely that would qualify as an inauspicious start.

"Then there is the mentor-student romance," Icheb continued, "the Pygmalion story—named for a play by the twentieth-century Terran playwright George Bernard Shaw. Stories about you and the Doctor fall into this sub-genre."

"Then the crew will not be disappointed when this story ends," Seven said. She noted Icheb's raised eyebrow and raised her own in return. "I've read the play… and the sequel. At the conclusion, Eliza marries Freddy, not Henry Higgins."

"Is there a Freddy in this story?" Icheb asked.

Seven swallowed hard. The conversation was again headed in a dangerous direction. She struggled to keep her face expressionless, refused to meet his eyes, and stammered a negative reply. She wasn't an accomplished liar. Her only advantage was that he would not expect deception from her. Even so, a change of subject was in order. "A great deal of speculation involves Captain Janeway," she said. "Given her position, this seems… inappropriate."

To her relief, he followed her segue. "The Captain is the leader of this community," he said. "The crew looks up to her, and so she inspires stories."

"About her romantic involvements," Seven said drily.

Icheb shrugged. "Starfleet mythos contains abundant precedent. Admiral Kirk's romantic exploits were known far beyond the bounds of Federation space."

Seven forced back a smile. The cadet appeared proud of this facet of one of Starfleet's heroes. "But stories about Admiral Kirk, if exaggerated, are still based on the historic record," she said. "Captain Janeway doesn't have a romantic partner."

"Of whom you're aware," Icheb said, and Seven had to concede that he had a point. "Anyway, there are stories that persist about Admiral Kirk that can't be verified historically—particularly those regarding a relationship with Ambassador Spock."

Seven thought it absurd to consider the Vulcan Spock's involvement in Kirk's sexual exploits in any manner other than his offering pointed commentary on the complications of romantic attachments… and she said so.

"Perhaps it's simply a fantasy extension of the captain-first officer relationship," Icheb admitted. "There are numerous examples—stories about Captain Archer and Commander T'Pol persist, even though there is ample historic evidence that she was involved with another member of Enterprise's crew." He paused. "And on Voyager, stories about Captain Janeway and Commander Chakotay are a sub-genre all to themselves."

Seven felt as if a swarm of insects had taken up residence in her stomach. "Are there many examples of this?" she asked, feigning ignorance.

Icheb chuckled. "Many."

"Does their prevalence indicate a basis in fact?"

"Not necessarily," he said. "It simply indicates that they are—in the opinion of the crew—an engaging couple. It doesn't mean that they are engaging to each other." He blushed lightly and stood a little straighter. "Anyway, I'm only studying the stories themselves, not judging their merits in terms of believability. Commander Chakotay says that it's important to maintain an emotional distance from the subject."

Seven sighed inwardly. It was wise advice—and had the added advantage of protecting the Commander's privacy, in the event the stories were true. However, it rendered Icheb's research irrelevant for her purposes. While he had compiled an impressive amount of raw data, he was as ill-equipped as Naomi to provide her with any judgments concerning its veracity. Perhaps this was proof that it was possible to be too scientific—an idea that Seven did not want to contemplate in any depth. As was too often true since she had come to live among humans, it was obvious that if she wanted an accurate assessment, she would have to investigate and analyze for herself.

∞

From the sheer volume of log entries Neelix had left behind, it was apparent that he had taken his role as Voyager's morale officer seriously. Daily life onboard ship was meticulously recorded: who ate with whom, what they ate, whether he thought they enjoyed it. Culinary misadventures resulting in visits to sickbay were duly noted and lamented. He paid special attention to those crewmembers who appeared subdued and documented his attempts to cheer them. Every social gathering was recounted to the minutest detail: the menus, the activities, who had attended—and who had not. Seven was often listed among the missing, which disturbed him. Apparently, he'd made improving _her_ morale something of a project—and considered her continuing avoidance of social interaction his greatest failure.

She stretched, catching a glimpse of her alcove over her shoulder. It was 0300, long past the hour she should have been regenerating. Since speaking with Naomi and Icheb two-and-a-half days before, she had not gotten much rest. Engrossed in her research, she was also easily distracted from her duties. Fortunately, at the moment none were particularly complicated, so her decrease in efficiency would not be noticed by anyone but herself. Still, if pressed, she would be forced to admit that this preoccupation was verging on obsession.

Yet the logs were compelling. She'd discovered them accidentally and had dismissed them at first glance, but once she began to review them, could not tear herself away. Delivered with Neelix's customary elaborations and digressions, they were a record of many experiences that Seven had shared. But told from a different point of view, she was forced to reconsider her own. This both fascinated and frustrated her. While the alteration in perspective was intriguing, she was growing less confident in her own perceptions—and more in his.

As an individual in whom most of the crew had confided at one time or another, Neelix was intimately familiar with his subject matter. And he had an eye for detail. While he rarely named the individuals to whom he referred, he provided enough description that Seven was confident she had ascertained the identities of approximately ninety-four percent. The logs provided evidence—although much of it was circumstantial—for some of the rumored relationships... and for a few that she had not yet considered. It crossed her mind that were Voyager destroyed, an archeologist in the future—or, given Captain Janeway's proclivity for time travel, in the past—would find these records as fascinating as she did.

She considered Neelix a reliable narrator—albeit one with a tendency to exaggerate—and she trusted his analysis. Unlike Icheb, he had no aversion to judging each story's merits in terms of accuracy. Thus, rumored liaisons between Commander Chakotay and Lieutenant Paris were labeled "pure fantasy," while a number of stories involving her and Ensign Kim were shrugged off by the cook as "wishful thinking." Seven hoped that this thinking was perceived to be on the ensign's part.

There was nothing regarding Captain Janeway, save for one item dated 49783—long before Seven had been brought onboard. The Captain and Commander Chakotay had been stranded on an M-class planet for two months, and Neelix found their interaction upon returning to Voyager altered somehow, in a manner that he could not—or would not—specify. He never referred to it again.

The Commander, however, was frequently mentioned—most often not as a topic of gossip, but in seeking out Neelix as a confidant. Upon brief reflection, Seven thought this logical. As first officer, personnel issues were Commander Chakotay's responsibility and the chef provided a more intimate perspective than the second-in-command would have. They conferred often, after hours, over a cup of tea. Neelix found the Commander to be a thoughtful and reasonable man, and was proud to be held in such high regard that his counsel was sought in especially difficult situations.

And it was a difficult situation discussed on stardate 54692 that jolted Seven to attention. The Commander had become aware that a crewman was spending an excessive amount of time on the holodeck, engaging with representations of the crew. While this violated no regulations—and was likely done more often than the first officer wanted to believe was true—it was considered in poor taste and could be viewed as an invasion of the crew's privacy. He felt it necessary to counsel the crewman in question, however circumstances dictated a sensitive approach.

Seven felt her face burn with shame. Neelix provided no detail regarding the crewman or her simulation, but she needed none. She remembered the reprimand so clearly that it could have been delivered a minute ago. She remembered the lurch in her stomach and how she pressed her fingers against his desk to ensure that she remained erect.

 _The program has been deleted, Commander,_ " she said quickly. _It will not happen again._

 _Glad to hear it,_ he said sincerely. She felt his eyes on her for a long minute. _Seven…_ He coughed lightly, clearing his throat. _Is everything all right?_

 _Affirmative, Commander,_ she said, but her voice was not as confident as she'd hoped.

He stood and walked around the desk, sat on the edge directly in front of her and stared at her until she was forced to look up. _I'm concerned about you,_ he said.

_Is my work insufficient?_

He chuckled. _No, Seven, your work—excepting a very brief period there—is exemplary. It's… well…_

It did not surprise her that he was having difficulty finding the appropriate words. He'd been kind enough not to say so, but the simulation must have embarrassed him horribly.

 _The holodeck can be comforting,_ he continued. _There isn't a person on the ship who hasn't taken refuge there at one time or another._ He looked at her directly, his eyes warm and compassionate. _But no matter how accurate your scenarios are in mimicking real life, it's still a simulation. It's not real._

She nodded and looked at her feet. _Understood, Commander,_ she said. _May I go?_

He patiently waited for her to look up again and smiled when she did. _Dismissed, Crewman._ She was almost at the door when he called her name once more and she turned, steeling herself against further humiliation. _Just a suggestion,_ he said, _but the next time someone asks you to join him for some fun—say a cooking demonstration in the mess hall—think about saying yes._ He grinned. _You never know… you just might enjoy it._

But he had not asked again, and she had avoided all but absolutely necessary contact with him for almost two months.

She sighed, closed the file, and paced a circle in front of her alcove; she was breathing too rapidly and her head was light. Her stomach lurched and she gripped the edge of the console to steady herself. She struggled to slow her breath, each shuddering in her chest against her racing heart. Her cortical node had overloaded on the holodeck and she was afraid that pattern was repeating. She ran a quick self-diagnostic—the node was functioning at ninety-three percent, the deficit easily explained by her lack of regeneration. To be absolutely certain, she ran a medical tricorder—which she had pilfered from sickbay the morning before—over herself to confirm. The readings were consistent with exhaustion and anxiety, nothing more.

She rolled her shoulders in a futile attempt to dispel the increasingly acute ache under her left scapula. She was tired, so tired that she believed she would even be able to sleep—if she could only stop her mind from reeling. The data was conflicting, overwhelming, and there were still too many unknowns. What had precipitated his recent interest in her? Were he and the Captain involved romantically? If not, did she want to be? Did he? If not, was there another? It annoyed her to think that she had never considered this, yet logically there was no reason to assume that the Commander would not be otherwise involved. He had many admirable qualities—and if they attracted her, so they would someone else.

Someone far more experienced in the nuances of romance than she.

Indeed, everything she had learned led to one conclusion: she had misconstrued his intentions. Still, she remembered the way he gently rested his hand on her back as he guided her on their hike up Mount Wilson. And she remembered catching him observing her on the bridge. Although she'd tried to ignore him, she couldn't ignore the way her heart thudded when she finally met his eyes and she couldn't deny the look her gave her—curious and kind—or his surprise and shy smile when he caught her watching him back.

She frowned. She required a counselor or a friend, but in this situation she had neither. Ordinarily, she would seek advice from the Captain or the Doctor, but that would be inappropriate under the circumstances. She rested her elbows on the console and her head in her hands. She had not felt so alone since her earliest days on the ship, when she was first severed from the Collective. She was not entirely without friends, but they were people with whom she participated in activities—not confidants. She could sing with Ensign Kim and his band; she could engage in Lieutenant Paris's holodeck scenarios and even grudgingly admit that she enjoyed them. But she could not converse with either about this. And there was no one else with whom she could talk on Voyager.

 _On_ Voyager. She stood erect and snorted. Had she not been so distracted by what her friend Korok had once called her "conflicted heart," she would have seen the solution immediately. She rushed to Astrometrics, ordered the startled Icheb and Crewman Tal on a break, and told them to return in one half-hour. Then, as a precaution, she sealed the doors.

She activated the com system, entered her request, and within a few minutes Neelix appeared on the screen, disheveled and distracted. "Seven!" His whiskers fluffed in an ebullient grin. "Good to see you! How is everyone?" But before she could respond, what sounded like a small explosion nearby engaged the Talaxian's attention. "Just _one_ nanosecond," he said before scurrying away.

It was almost three minutes longer than a nanosecond when he returned. "So sorry," he said with a sigh. "Niroxilan peas—a delicacy I haven't had since I left Talax. Dexa's late husband used to grow them, and she saved some seeds. But they are _finicky_ little devils. Heat too low and they become tough as a Kazon hide. Too high and _poof,_ they're everywhere except in the pot." His eyebrows waggled vigorously. "As you can see." He looked over his shoulder, studying the off-screen conditions in what Seven surmised was the kitchen. "Or… well… as you can _hear._ " He turned back to the console and settled himself comfortably into his chair. "So, where were we?"

"You were enquiring as to our condition," she offered.

He smiled and nodded. "So I was," he said encouragingly. "And…?"

"We are fine," she said. "I was uncertain if anyone was keeping you apprised of our whereabouts, as you'd requested."

"Not as often as I'd like!" he exclaimed. He looked at his console, then back at her with a sly smile. "But if you don't mind my saying so, unless my calculations are off—and it's possible they could be, but… I don't think so—it's 0300 there."

Seven felt her cheeks burn—in her distracted state she hadn't considered the time differential. "0317 to be precise… I'm sorry," she stammered, looking down. "If this is a bad time…"

"Not for me!" he said. "But shouldn't _you_ be regenerating?" But before she could respond, he suddenly frowned and leaned forward anxiously. "You're _sure_ everyone's all right? The Captain? B'Elanna? The baby?"

She looked up. "Everyone is fine," she reiterated. "And the Doctor has completely recovered from the alterations to his program."

"Glad to hear it!" Neelix chortled, then winked sympathetically. "Naomi told me about his 'deathbed confession.'"

Seven massaged her right temple where a curious throb might have indicated cerebrovascular distress. "You are well-informed," she said. "As you were about a situation on stardate 54692."

"54692," he repeated, his brow furrowed in thought. "Was that? No…." He shook his head apologetically. "I can't say I remember…"

"I was abusing my holodeck privileges," Seven offered. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. "Commander Chakotay sought your advice regarding a reprimand…"

The Talaxian's mouth opened and closed repeatedly, but no sound emerged. "That was _you?_ " he squeaked at last.

It was her turn to lose the power of speech. He hadn't known? How was that possible? She stared at him, frozen with despair. "It was in the mess hall logs," she said hesitantly.

"Well, yes," Neelix said. "He discussed the situation with me. But he never told me who the crewman was. As I recall, he said that he didn't want to overreact, that the situation was complicated because he might be…" He pressed his lips shut, as if he had already said more than he'd intended.

"Because he might be what?" Seven asked.

"I don't think he meant it as a reprimand," Neelix said. He shook his head, still incredulous. "That was _you._ "

"We have already established that fact," Seven said glumly.

He looked at her, raising his brows then furrowing them again repeatedly, as if he were examining a culinary experiment gone awry.

"Have Captain Janeway and Commander Chakotay ever been involved romantically?" she asked.

He peered at her quizzically. "Seven, if you don't mind my saying so, I'm… well, I'm having a little—just a _little_ , mind you—trouble following…"

She raised her eyebrow. "It is a simple question."

"No," he said, shaking his head back and forth, then nodding up and down. "I mean, yes, it's a simple question. And no, the Captain has always been firm about avoiding fraternization."

"Yet many on the crew believe that they are. Or were. Or want to be…"

Neelix shrugged. "And just as many believe that you and the Captain are involved," he said. "That doesn't mean you are, unless…" He leaned forward. "You aren't, are you?"

She raised her eyebrow again. "Am I romantically involved with the Captain?" It wasn't as absurd a notion as she knew some might think. The Captain was a handsome woman and possessed a compelling personality. They were close friends, and there had been moments when Seven thought that they might cross a line to something else, but the moment always passed, their affiliation unaltered. And it was not the Captain she desired. "No," she said unequivocally. "I am not."

"And that shows you just how much stock you should put in rumors," he said. He rubbed his chin as he studied her. "The strange thing is… well, Seven, it's very odd that you care about any of this—it's not your… you don't…"

"I have a date with Commander Chakotay tomorrow evening," she blurted.

The Talaxian's face lit up with surprise and delight. "Why, Seven! That's wonderful!" he exclaimed.

"Your enthusiasm is premature," she said. "I am uncertain as to his intentions."

"Now don't be so pessimistic," he scolded. "After all, if he asked you… He did ask you, didn't he?"

She bit her lower lip. "You will keep this between us?" she asked, knowing that she had already revealed more than was prudent even with such a promise.

"Of course I will!" he said, then sighed dramatically. "I'm disappointed, yes, truly disappointed that you would even _think_ you needed to ask." He leaned forward and looked her in the eye. "I learned a long time ago—longer than I care to admit—that if you want people to confide in you, it's imperative you keep their secrets." He thumped his chest with his fist to emphasize his point, then raised his eyebrows expectantly. "So, did he?"

Seven inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. Time was running short—Icheb and Crewman Tal would soon return from their break, and she had already provided more information than she had received. "Yes, he made the request. For the first date as well."

"This is the _second_ date?" He rubbed his hands together with glee. "Seven, that's _wonderful!_ " He grinned broadly, then winked, as if sharing a confession. "If you want to know the truth, I always thought that you two would make an _excellent_ couple."

She stiffened and frowned. "Explain," she demanded.

"Well, not _always_ … not until recently, actually," he stammered. He took a deep breath to compose himself. "Let's just say I've encouraged him to reach out to you."

Her brow remained furrowed.

"He's been concerned about you for months," Neelix said. "Well, most of the year, actually… time flies, doesn't it? Who would've thought a year ago…?" He noted her impatience and cleared his throat. "Yes, well… the Commander thought you seemed subdued. Preoccupied. He thought you might be lonely. We talked about encouraging you to get out and interact with people."

"So his interest is charitable," she said. Although expected, she felt her throat thicken with disappointment. She swallowed hard. It was best she know now.

Neelix threw up his hands in exasperation. "Seven, give yourself a little credit! You've blossomed into a beautiful woman…"

She snorted. "I would hardly call my complete ineptitude at social interaction a 'blossoming.'"

"Nonsense!" he said. "So you're still a little rough around the edges. But if you've got questions about romance, well…" His whiskers puffed proudly. "I'm your man."

She recognized the illusory skip in her heartbeat as hope. "Do you believe that the Commander's interest in me is romantic?" she asked hesitantly.

He smiled and nodded. "Yes, yes, I think it could be," he said confidently. "After you returned from Ledos, well, even though you were only stranded together for a few days, his interest, shall we say, seemed, well… more than professional, and certainly…"

"But," Seven said, interrupting him, "after he and the Captain were stranded, you believed their interaction altered as well."

"Well, yes," he admitted. "But that was a long time ago and…"

"So you were uncertain then and you are uncertain now."

"Well, no…" He sighed. "Seven, you can't be absolutely certain unless you ask him and…"

She stood straighter. At long last, this was advice she could use. "Very well," she said. "I will ask him later today when he returns from his away mission. Thank you for your assistance."

Neelix shook his head. "No, that's not a good idea."

"Then how do I know his intentions?"

"You don't." His spots darkened in frustration—clearly, providing her with assistance was proving more difficult than he'd thought. "That's part of the mystery of love, Seven. You never know what will happen for sure. Go on the date. Have fun. Talk to him, get to know him. Let him get to know you…"

"Share activities that you enjoy," Seven said, reciting courtship advice she'd read. "On our first date, I mentioned that I was interested in a particular singer and Commander Chakotay suggested a performance on the holodeck for our second date."

He smiled broadly. "That sounds very promising, Seven. Very promising indeed."

An alert chimed—someone was attempting to access the lab. "That would be Icheb and Crewman Tal, returning from their break," Seven said. "I must terminate this communication."

"Well, it's been a _pleasure_ ," Neelix said, smiling broadly. "I hope I was able to help you in some small way." He leaned forward and winked knowingly. "Contact me after the date—maybe I can give you ideas for the next one. At the very least, we can play a game of kadis kot."

"Kadis kot would be enjoyable," Seven said.

"And, Seven?" He looked at her sternly as the comlink closed. "Just _try_ to look on the bright side…"

∞

"Sometimes I wonder why…" Seven cringed; she'd come in late again. "…I spend the lonely nights dreaming of a song…"

It was a difficult composition to sing, requiring precise vocal technique, but her tempo was off and she wasn't hitting the notes, she was sliding into them. She was out of tune—the highs and lows were especially grating.

Harry Kim lowered his clarinet and looked at her, clearly exasperated. "What the hell, Seven? You sounded better humming under your breath on the bridge last week."

"I am having an off night." She steeled herself against further criticism, but it did not come. He simply looked at her, frowning. They'd been rehearsing for a half-hour and had not completed the first verse, not once. "Again," she said. "From the top."

"No," he said as he placed the instrument in its stand. "You're not prepared. This is a complete waste of time."

"I do not waste time," she said.

"Well, you're wasting mine."

Seven bristled, although she had to concede that his assessment was accurate, his irritation justified. Were she an unbiased observer, she would call her performance inept. She felt her face burn and inhaled sharply.

He turned to her again and caught her expression, somewhere between embarrassment and self-loathing. He smiled sheepishly. "Everyone has an off night now and then," he said, his tone softening. "Even you. Let's quit for now and try again tomorrow."

"Why do you assume that I have nothing else to do tomorrow?" she demanded.

He looked at her quizzically. "What's up with you?" he asked. "We're on a deadline here. The recital is next week, we haven't made it through the first song, and you haven't had a single rehearsal with the full band."

Harry was a perfectionist and Seven appreciated that. She looked at the floor. "Then remove me from the program," she said. "Clearly I'm not up to the challenge."

He considered this for a brief moment. "No," he said. "You're not chickening out. I'm not letting you." He held her eyes. "You have a beautiful voice, your technique is usually flawless, and you're developing into a remarkably expressive singer." He gripped her shoulders in emphasis. "You have a gift, Seven. It needs to be shared."

She snorted. "The 'gift' is from the Borg. Technological enhancements, nothing more."

"It doesn't matter where it came from," he said. "A lucky roll of the genetic dice? Borg technology? It doesn't matter. What matters is that you have it. You enjoy it. You should share it." He smiled encouragement. "It's natural to be nervous, especially before the first performance. Don't worry. The crew is surprisingly generous."

Seven wasn't certain this would be true—she knew that some of the crew would relish her public failure. And even if they didn't, their assessment would be irrelevant. _She_ would know she had failed. "I have plans for tomorrow evening," she said obstinately.

She'd taxed his patience. "Fine," he said, raising his hands in defeat. "Regenerate. Design a transwarp engine. Whatever. Obviously this isn't that important to you."

He had no idea how wrong he was. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. Exhaustion and anxiety were adversely affecting her mood—and the mood appeared to be contagious. "I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "I haven't been regenerating well recently. I am tired."

His expression softened again. "Apology accepted."

"I do have plans for tomorrow evening, however I am free the following night," she said. "I will be better prepared." By then, she thought, perhaps she would have a better understanding of her romantic situation and would be less distracted. And if events did not proceed as she hoped, at the very least, she would have more to express musically.

She wondered if Neelix would consider this an example of "looking on the bright side."

Harry nodded. "Get some rest," he said with a smile. "I'll see you on the bridge in the morning."

Seven started toward the door, then paused and turned to face him. "I am sorry I wasted your time," she said. "I am grateful for all of your assistance." She looked down at the floor, then back at him. "Thank you for suggesting Rosemary Clooney. I have enjoyed the audio files and will be attending a simulation of a live performance on the holodeck tomorrow evening." Perhaps if he thought her prior engagement was for the purpose of furthering her musical education, he would be less irritated with her lack of preparation tonight.

"You're welcome," he said, smiling. "She had a clear, pure voice like yours, her technique was incredible, and her expressive abilities unparalleled. Learn from her, but don't mimic…" His voice trailed off and his face lit up, as if a switch had been turned on. "Wait a minute… _Chakotay_ asked me for a list of her best live performances to choose from for a holodeck program."

Seven struggled to keep her face impassive. She had done it again. Either she spoke too little or she spoke too much or she spoke on the wrong topic.

"Are you dating the First Officer?" Harry asked incredulously.

Her face burned. She looked at the door—a mere 2.47 meters away—and wondered if her trembling legs would propel her to it. "I don't know how to date," she mumbled evasively. She sneaked a glimpse of his face out of the corner of her eye; his expression was both astonished and amused.

"Well, have a good time," he said as she fled his quarters. "Enjoy the show. Let me know if there are any songs…" He was cut off by the door automatically closing behind her.

She navigated the corridor in a sprint, nearly colliding with one of the Ensigns Delaney. As soon as she rounded the corner nearest the turbolift, she slumped against the bulkhead, hyperventilating, feeling faint. She attempted to control her ragged breathing, not entirely successfully. Ensign Kim was undoubtedly on the com to Lieutenant Paris with this revelation, and no one on the ship was more efficient at disseminating gossip than Tom. News of her date with the Commander would spread within hours, if not minutes. Seven knew him to be a private man. The resulting exaggeration and speculation would disturb him. Perhaps he would cancel their date.

Her head cleared, her breathing slowed. She touched the panel to summon the turbolift. She was resigned to this affiliation ending before it had begun, but she could not forgive herself for making him—even inadvertently—a subject of gossip for the crew. He had been kind to her. He deserved better. She needed to fix this, but could not trust her own efforts. She required assistance. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. She entered the turbolift. "Deck Six," she ordered.

∞

Lieutenant Commander Tuvok's quarters were lit by one candle. "Am I disturbing you, Commander?" Seven asked upon entering. "Are you meditating?"

"I was," the Vulcan said. "Computer, lights." The room brightened to standard evening residential illumination. He extinguished the candle, then stood and faced her. "I have just finished. How may I assist you?"

Seven took a deep breath. His dispassionate demeanor calmed her. "The crew expends a significant amount of time and effort disseminating invalid information," she reported.

He intuited her reference. "You are referring to gossip," he replied.

She raised her eyebrow. Clearly Naomi was wrong—he was not as "out of touch" as she'd said. "I believe it is compromising ship's efficiency," she said.

He raised an eyebrow in response. "How so?"

"The crew is wasting time that could be spent on vital operations."

"Indeed," he said. "However personnel issues are Commander Chakotay's responsibility. Perhaps this would be better taken up with him."

She had considered this before approaching the security chief, however she thought it best that Chakotay never know about the latest speculation about to sweep the ship. "These trivial matters distract the crew and compromise security as well," she said. "Ship's security is your responsibility."

He raised an eyebrow again. "It is," he agreed. He contemplated the view out the window for a few moments. They were orbiting an M-class moon, preparing for mining operations. "Is there a reason you consider this an urgent issue?"

His query took her off-guard. She had already explained her concerns: efficiency and security. Surely he understood the urgency of that?

"I am aware that there has been a great deal of speculation following the Doctor's confessions." Tuvok turned and faced her again. "The Captain and I have already discussed the matter."

Seven visibly relaxed. "Then you will stop the gossip?"

"I am not certain that we can 'stop the gossip,' as you say. Humans gossip; it is their nature. It is inevitable that the crew will speculate. Neither the Captain nor I believe that either ship's security or efficiency has been compromised in any way. The 'deathbed confessions' were an annoyance, but ultimately inconsequential."

In her obsession with speculation about romantic affiliations, she had forgotten that others were involved: the Doctor had admitted to keeping a log of Captain Janeway's questionable decisions, and had apologized to Ensign Kim for comparing his saxophone skills to the sound of a wounded targ, and to Commander Tuvok for breaking medical privacy regulations. Seven was not the only one embarrassed by his revelations.

"It is disconcerting to realize that I am being discussed by my crewmates, out of my presence," she said at last.

"As there is nothing you can do about it, logic dictates that you should ignore it," Tuvok said.

"Why do you permit it?"

He pressed his fingertips together. "Voyager's crew is diverse, both in the number of different species represented, and in the personality styles of the individual crew members," he said. "This ship is small and it is a closed community—interpersonal conflicts are inevitable. Those conflicts can lead to insubordination and loss of morale and, yes, even to security breaches. Allowing gossip to continue—and may I remind you that there is no evidence we can stop it—both acts as a safety valve and provides an information stream."

"You monitor gossip?" Seven asked incredulously.

Tuvok raised an eyebrow. "Affirmative."

"But the information gleaned is circumstantial and inaccurate at best," Seven protested, "and at worst, entirely fabricated."

"I have worked with humans for close to a century," he said, "and have lived among them in Starfleet for almost forty years, all totaled. From my own observation and analysis, I have found that there is often a kernel of truth—albeit sometimes very small—in gossip. It is prudent to stay abreast of the preoccupations of the crew, and investigate further when the need requires."

She bit her lower lip. It was clear that he would not assist her.

Tuvok observed her closely. "I understand that being the subject of gossip can be… unnerving." Neither his face nor voice betrayed any emotion, but his words were compassionate. "I can assist you with meditation exercises to control your emotional response, if you wish."

Seven smiled ruefully. "That is kind of you to offer, Commander," she said. "But no. I am human. I need to experience my emotions fully, not repress them."

"Even given the threat to your cortical node?"

Seven looked up sharply. "How do you know about that?" she demanded.

Tuvok shrugged. "Your implants have posed a security risk in the past—and likely will in the future. You have, after all, been contacted by the Borg Queen more than once during your time on Voyager." He paused. "Unfortunately, in the interest of ship's security, medical privacy regulations do not apply to your implant malfunctions. The Doctor is under orders to report any anomalies to the Captain, who will then provide the information to Commander Chakotay or myself, as she sees fit. I assure you, we hold it in the strictest confidence."

So that was how Commander Chakotay knew about her program. They had been forced to investigate when her cortical node malfunctioned. Seven's face burned, even as she knew that Tuvok's logic was flawless. "I understand, Commander," she said. "A prudent measure." She paused. "And yes. Even given the threat to my cortical node."

She thanked him for his assistance and left his quarters. She strode quickly through the corridor to the turbolift, her face an impassive mask. She offered curt nods to crewmates who greeted her as she passed. They expected nothing more of her. The behavior was familiar and comfortable.

Human interaction was a puzzle she simply could not solve. For almost four years, she had observed the crew, tried to mimic their behavior, tried to moderate her own to fit in. Nothing she had done had changed her position; she remained on the outside, quizzically watching them, longing to be one of them. A misfit.

She entered the cargo bay. This, too, was familiar and comfortable. Home. She sealed the doors behind her.

∞

Middle-of-the-night disruptions to her regeneration cycle were becoming a disturbing pattern. She assumed it was nightmares that jolted her eyes open two or three hours into the cycle, but she could not remember them by the time she stepped from her alcove. This, too, was a disturbing pattern, one that she attributed to the failsafe component in her cortical node: if she could not remember something, it would have no residual emotional impact. Had the component adapted to prevent future complications? If so, it was an interesting adaptation, but ultimately unsuccessful: Seven never forgot anything and these blank spaces were more profoundly disturbing than any nightmare could be.

She stood at the window in the mess hall. Commander Tuvok had once told her that a view of the stars assisted his meditation. She had not yet perfected that technique. And, as she had already catalogued all of the celestial bodies visible at this location, with nothing else to occupy her attention, she attempted to simply admire the view.

But her mind would not rest. They were in synchronous orbit over the mining site, and from this vantage she could see carved into the coast a deep bay rimmed by mountains. In her mind's eye she was on a holographic planet's surface, looking over another bay from other mountains. _My favorite place on Earth,_ Chakotay had said, smiling. _Care to join me?_

They'd reached the summit just before sunset. There was a chill in the air. Los Angeles Bay, 1740 meters below, was iridescent. Sailboats were scattered across the water. A barely perceptible mist hung low. Chakotay explained that one hundred meters below the surface lay the remains of a city—once home to ten million—which had been destroyed in an earthquake three centuries before, and had given the bay its name.

Seven watched the sea birds circle and keen. _An admirable view,_ she said.

 _You'll see it for yourself one say,_ he said confidently, smiling, dimples creasing his cheeks. He sighed contentedly. _There's something about the light here, especially at this time of year, this time of day. The sunset looks almost as if it was painted._

 _A function of the composition of the atmosphere,_ she said. _The gas density, moisture content, trace minerals in the water vapor…_ Her voice trailed off as his expression segued from contentment to disappointment.

 _You don't have to analyze it, Seven,_ he said. _Just enjoy the view._

She bit her lip. She had misunderstood somehow—and he had misunderstood her. His words stung. She considered the vista for a moment. _Does understanding atmospheric science lessen the impact of the view in any way?_ she asked at last. _Does it make it less beautiful?_

He looked at her sharply. Slowly he smiled, then he laughed.

Seven blushed deeply. _I did not intend to make a joke,_ she said.

He shook his head. _No,_ he said and chuckled, then raised his water bottle to her as if in a toast. _Touché. That's almost word-for-word what I said to my father right before I left Trebus for the Academy._ He paused. _My people believe that divinity is immanent—that God, if you will, is a part of nature, rather than apart from it. All nature is sacred. My father said that I should just accept that, appreciate that._ He grinned. _I asked him how studying something could take away the sanctity of it._ He looked at her closely, as if considering something for the first time. _Does this look different to you than to me?_ he asked, taking in the scene with his hand. _Your ocular implant—does it change how you see things?_

The question startled her, and it took her a short while to respond. _I suppose it does,_ she said. _My cybernetic eye perceives a wider spectrum than my human eye. That would affect my binocular vision._ She blushed lightly and shrugged. _I've never thought about it. The way I see is normal to me._

He met her eyes and held her gaze for a long moment. For the first time in her life, she felt that someone was seeing her, rather than an image of her, rather than whom he wanted her to be, the woman he could imagine her becoming. And he did not turn away. Her gratitude was tremendous.

Now Seven blinked back tears. What could she say to him? "Thank you," she whispered. "I have insufficient communication skills to fully express how much your companionship meant to me." Would rehearsing it now make it easier to say when the time came?

She heard the mess hall doors open and close, and she turned in the direction of the sound. Lieutenant B'Elanna Torres emerged from the shadows, and shuffled across the room as if she were sleepwalking.

"ghay'cha'!" She was almost at Seven's side when she saw her and startled. "Damn it, Seven!" she said, scowling, her hands clenched into fists. "Can't you call out? You should know better than to sneak up on a pregnant Klingon."

"I did not 'sneak up' on you," Seven said, bristling. "I was already at this location."

The lieutenant's face and hands relaxed, and she smiled sheepishly. "Sorry," she said. "Hormones. I didn't realize anyone was in here. Am I interrupting you?"

"No," Seven said. "You are not. It would appear that we are both suffering from insomnia."

B'Elanna arched her back, rested her hands on her hips and massaged either side of her lumbar spine with her thumbs. "My back is killing me," she confessed.

"Perhaps you should go to sickbay," Seven offered. "The Doctor can provide you with an analgesic."

"If I go to sickbay, he'll keep me in there for at least an hour. And he'll insist on waking Tom." The engineer grimaced. "She's active right now—she'll find a more comfortable spot soon."

"Perhaps this is how mothers adapt to waking to feed infants every two hours," Seven mused. "You are prepared for sleep disruptions by the time they are born."

B'Elanna laughed heartily. "Well, aren't you just a ray of sunshine?"

Seven cringed. "I didn't…"

"Seven, it's okay," she said, interrupting. "Really. You made a pregnant Klingon laugh. That's an accomplishment." She grinned. "Maybe I should send Tom to you for some lessons."

"I hardly think that I would be the best individual to be providing relationship guidance," Seven said glumly. She returned to her contemplation of the view. But out of the corner of her eye, she saw shadows moving across the lieutenant's sleepwear. "Curious," she said. "Your abdomen is… rippling."

B'Elanna smiled. "She's kicking." She took Seven's human hand and placed it gently on her abdomen. As if on cue, the baby kicked. Seven's eyes widened in wonder. "Pretty great, isn't it?" B'Elanna said.

Seven nodded and smiled. This was a perspective she would never have imagined. "She's strong. Like her mother," she murmured.

B'Elanna acknowledged the compliment by returning the smile. "So what has you up at 0230?" she asked.

"It is 0256," Seven said.

"Okay, what has you up at 0256?" The lieutenant smiled encouragement. "You listened to my woes, it's only fair I listen to yours." She grinned. "And you do have a captive audience—I can't move very fast right now."

Her query caught Seven off-guard. The two women had never been close friends. In truth, the Klingon had hated Seven when she first came on board. And even after she'd settled in and become part of the ship's routine, the engineer continued to distrust her. She was irritated by Seven's lack of social graces, which both confused and amused Seven—it was not as though Lieutenant Torres was a model of courtesy herself. But, slowly, a mutual respect had emerged. They were able to work together efficiently and often collaborated. And at some point in time that Seven realized she could not exactly place, B'Elanna's attitude toward her had softened. Perhaps marriage and pregnancy had altered her perspective.

"You are married to Tom Paris," Seven said.

B'Elanna nodded.

"He is efficient at disseminating ship's gossip," Seven continued. "You must hear about it."

"More than I'd like," B'Elanna admitted.

Seven took a deep breath. "Are the Captain and Commander Chakotay involved in a romantic affiliation?" she asked.

B'Elanna snorted a laugh. "Is _that_ one going around again?" She shook her head. "I take full credit for Harry and the Delaney sisters," she said, "and I might have pushed you and the Doctor a little, but I had _nothing_ to do with the resurrection of _In the Ready Room_." She grinned. "Although it does come in handy."

Seven gaped at her in horror. Was the lieutenant admitting to manipulating ship's gossip for her own unknown purposes? Who did she think she was? Did she think the crew existed for her own entertainment? And _she_ dared criticize Seven's social skills? She felt her face darken with anger. "Explain," she demanded.

B'Elanna rolled her eyes at Seven's sudden fury and lifted her hand. "Relax," she said. "I needed a diversion."

"A diversion?" Seven echoed.

B'Elanna studied her for a minute. "yIntagh," she muttered. Idiot. She pursed her lips. "If this gets around I'll know exactly where it came from and I'll break your face. Understood?"

Seven nodded. "Understood," she said warily.

B'Elanna stepped closer to her and lowered her voice conspiratorially, even though they were alone in the room. "When your oldest friend asks you to help get the crew _not_ talking about something, you create a diversion. That's how you keep something private on this ship—you find something _else_ for them to talk about." She shrugged. "When you're married to Tom, it's really not that hard."

Seven raised her eyebrow. The lieutenant's strategy was inventive, even if its purpose had not been clearly explained. Was she saying that she knew something? She took a deep breath. "Please, Lieutenant," she said, her tone uncertain. "I'm unable to follow your reasoning." Her face burned—she hated admitting weakness, especially to the Klingon. "I'd appreciate it if you'd be direct."

"Direct," B'Elanna repeated with an exasperated sigh. She met Seven's eyes "Okay, here's the deal, directly. You're not exactly my first choice for him, but then Tom wasn't his first choice for me." Her smile was belied by the cool warning in her eyes. "If you hurt him…"

"You'll break my face," Seven murmured, her eyes wide as she struggled to process this revelation. Had the Commander spoken to Lieutenant Torres about _her?_ Was he as uncertain of her as she was of him? This was something she had never considered. He appeared to be so self-contained, so confident.

She realized that he could say the same about her.

"I'll rip your tongue out and shove it down your gullet with my fist," B'Elanna said serenely. She started toward the door, then turned to face Seven again and eyed her up and down. She shook her head, her expression a combination of exasperation and pity. "Look, I could use your help with the warp core diagnostic this morning."

"Your staff is perfectly capable of performing that task," Seven said.

"Yes, they are," the lieutenant agreed. "However, it'll get done in half the time if you're involved. Tabor's still pissed at you _and_ afraid of you—that's a powerful incentive for speed and accuracy." She grinned. "I'll see you at 1030."

Seven started to protest, but the engineer cut her off. "You're getting out of an 0700 call on the bridge," she said. "That's an order, Crewman." She smiled gently. "Get some rest. No offense, but you look kind of haggard. You want to look your best in that dress tonight, don't you?" She saw Seven's deep blush and chuckled, and then glided to and out the door with more ease and grace than her condition seemed likely to allow.

∞

Seven examined her reflection in the polished metal side of a biomatter container. She tossed her hair lightly, an unfamiliar movement. The style was called "tousled waves," according to Naomi Wildman, who had helped her select the coiffure from the database—and had arranged it for her, as Seven was not skilled in such matters. Naomi appeared to enjoy the task immensely, smiling proudly as she pointed out that usually it is the _older_ sister who educates the younger, and here they were, just the opposite.

Seven was grateful for the assistance.

Naomi had also selected the deep berry gloss that now coated Seven's lips, a curious and rather unpleasant sensation. Naomi told her that she would get used to it.

She smoothed the fabric of the dress over her abdomen and stepped out from behind her makeshift closet. She smiled shyly at Naomi. "How do I look?" she asked.

Naomi gaped. " _Damn_ , Seven." She blushed as Seven frowned at her outburst. "Sorry," she said. "I know I'm not supposed to swear, but…"

"My appearance is acceptable?" Seven asked hesitantly.

"More than acceptable," Naomi confirmed. "You're really beautiful." She smiled proudly, much as the Doctor had when Seven mastered a social lesson.

Beautiful. Seven still didn't entirely understand the concept, at least when applied to individuals. Some faces were more pleasing to look at than others—this much was true—but she still considered this irrelevant, particularly when it came to herself. Her human face was, in her own estimation, entirely ordinary. She had two eyes, a nose and a mouth; her features were symmetrical. What made her appearance unique were her remaining Borg implants, and these were hardly something that humans would consider "beautiful." Still, the compliment pleased her. She smiled broadly.

"Do that a lot," Naomi said, returning the smile.

She had not asked again who "the guy" was, nor had Seven offered the information. Given the speed of Voyager's gossip stream, she considered it likely that Naomi already knew.

"Thank you for your assistance," Seven said sincerely. "I would have been at a loss."

Naomi raised her hand, brushing Seven's gratitude aside. "That's what sisters are for," she said. "Come on, I'll walk you to the holodeck."

Seven smiled to herself—she had never had a sister, but it appeared to be an essential relationship.

She attempted her customary expression in the turbolift and the corridors, but she couldn't keep the corners of her mouth in their usual alignment. She ran a self-diagnostic; her cortical node was functioning at ninety-nine percent. Six uninterrupted hours of regeneration had helped. Proper instruction and preparation had helped as well. She was anxious, but it was an anticipatory anxiety, not the acute variety that made her want to bolt back to refuge in the cargo bay. She almost enjoyed this feeling. Almost.

She peered at the log for Holodeck Two. The Commander was inside, waiting for her. She smiled down at Naomi shyly, took a deep breath, and smoothed the front of her dress again.

"Have a great time," Naomi said with a grin before she skipped away.

Would she find Harry Kim or Tom Paris and discuss this in the mess hall? Seven smiled to herself, just a small smile. Perhaps Tuvok was right—it was illogical to concern oneself with matters beyond one's control. She entered her code on the panel and the holodeck doors opened. She hummed the opening bars of "Stardust" to calm herself.

She was perfectly in tune.

FIN


End file.
